


I'll Wait to See You Again

by Hella_Gay



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: All You Need Is Kill AU, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Edge of Tomorrow AU, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, F/F, Minor Character Death, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 21:19:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5142806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hella_Gay/pseuds/Hella_Gay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa’s face softens as she looks down at Clarke. She reaches out to stroke the strands of hair that have fallen out of Clarke’s bun. </p><p>“Dying’s not that bad, once you get used to it.”</p><p>It’s barely a whisper, and if Clarke’s senses weren’t attuned to everything that is Lexa, she may have missed it. The statement is unsettling, but it’s the empty wistfulness of Lexa’s voice that makes Clarke’s chest feel like it’s caving in. Then again, that might have something to do with the gaping hole in the center of her breastplate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

NBC News is broadcasting last night’s recording of General Jaha’s speech. _“The Victory at Verdun is the first of many to come. The dedication of our soldiers and the diligence of the scientists behind the ExoSuit technology, provides for us the final measures needed to win this war. We can win. We will win. And once we are finished, those vermin will rue the-”_

-click-

Military propaganda, displaying the new ExoSuit jackets, flashes on screen.

_“- the most advanced weaponry is now here. The only thing missing is you.”_

-click-

CNN plays a segment of their interview with the United Defense Force spokeswoman Major Clarke Griffin of the US Army Media Relations. _“Operation Downfall is going to be the largest mechanized invasion in the history of mankind.”_

“Can you turn that shit off?” Clarke growls. “This is the first day to myself in months, and I’m getting sick of the sound of my voice.”

“Then maybe you should stop talking,” Octavia quips as she turns off the TV. She stands up from the recliner and walks over to where Clarke is sprawled out on the couch with her arm thrown over her eyes. Octavia shakes her head before plopping down on Clarke’s thighs.

Clarke arms flail as she yelps in surprise. She glares at the brunette. “Seriously? Get off of me.” Octavia only sinks further into her lap and shakes her head. After a couple minutes of struggling, Clarke finally gives up.

“So I was thinking.” Clarke groans and Octavia swats at her stomach. “Don’t be rude. Anyways, I was thinking that we should do something tonight before you head out tomorrow.”

“I don’t know, O. My flight is at 0100, and I don't think the commander of UDF will take kindly to me being hungover.”

“I don’t mean anything crazy, Griff.” Clarke doesn’t look convinced. “We’ll stay in, and I’ll invite Bell. We can knock back some beers, watch shitty movies, and reminisce about our lives before everything went to hell.”

It’s been five years since Germany was struck by that meteor. The initial shock and panic from the impact damage was miniscule in comparison to the realization that the meteor was carrying life. The alien species’ aggression combined with the lack of uniformity among the world’s militaries allowed for the invaders to steadily advance across Europe, leaving destruction and devastation in their wake. As casualties throughout Europe rapidly increased, NATO militaries merged to create the United Defense Force. Despite the UDF’s best efforts, soldiers were being wiped out on the battlefield. The aliens, now dubbed Mimics, were able to mimic and even anticipate military actions. War raged on for five years, and the defeats continued to escalate. Millions were lost, and spirits were dwindling.

That is until about a month ago, when humanity finally saw its first victory in Verdun, France. Casualties in the battle were surprisingly low, and General Jaha utilized this victory to forge a new war strategy. This strategy involved the mass production and use of the ExoSuits that aided Alexandria Woods in her victory at Verdun. Woods was nicknamed the Angel of Verdun after her prowess enabled her to slaughter hundreds of Mimics on her first day of battle. She is now a symbol of humanity’s hope, and her face is plastered on nearly every piece of military propaganda. Humanity finally has a chance in the fight against the Mimics. Humanity finally has a chance to survive.

The Mimics are currently being held back at the English Channel, but it is unknown how long this can be maintained. Tomorrow, Clarke flies to London to meet with General Jaha to discuss Operation Downfall in greater detail. Then, who knows what will happen. After all these years, she thinks she deserves a night free from obligations.

“It will be just like old times,” Octavia pleads, now resting her entire body over Clarke’s.

“Sure, O. Let’s do it.” Octavia squeals and scrambles off of her best friend.

“I’ll call Bell now and tell him to run to the liquor store on his way over,” Octavia calls over her shoulder as she runs into her room.

Clarke sits up from the couch and walks into the kitchen. The pile of takeout menus catches her eye and she starts looking through the different options. “What do you want to eat tonight?”

Octavia’s head pops in from the hallway, with her phone to her ear. “I’m not sure. Bell, what do you want to eat tonight?” She asks into the phone, before turning her attention back to Clarke. “He said he hasn’t had Indian in a while.”

“That sounds perfect actually.” Octavia nods her head and smiles.

“Indian it is, big brother,” she says as she disappears down the hallway.

Clarke spends the rest of the afternoon going over her speeches she has composed for the aftermath of Operation Downfall. She’s written a couple victory speeches. They all are really just slight variations of each other, all culminating to one main objective: winning the war. She barely spares a glance at the speeches written for the worst case scenario.

Hours pass before Octavia reminds her to order the food so that it will arrive shortly after Bellamy does. Clarke orders dinner and goes to her room to shower. Afterwards, she throws on a pair of sweatpants and one of her dad’s old t-shirts. There is a knock on the door when she walks into the living room.

“I’ve got it.” Octavia flies past Clarke towards the door and looks through the peephole. “Who is it?” she asks in a sing-song voice.

“Open the door, Octavia,” Bellamy groans on the other side of the door.

“What’s the password?” Clarke quietly laughs and shakes her head at her best friend’s antics.

“If you don’t let me in, I’ll just sit out here and drink this case all by myself.” Octavia swings the door open and glares at her brother.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Bellamy chuckles and ruffles his sister’s hair.

“Nice to see you too, kid.” Octavia swats his hands away and fixes her hair, before squaring her shoulders.

“Show me some respect, civvy.” Bellamy rolls his eyes and pushes past Octavia. She huffs and closes the door behind him.

“You may be a Captain, but to me you’re still my little sister.” He smiles as Clarke greets him with a hug. “Hey, Clarke.”

“Hi, Bellamy. How have you been?” She asks as she takes the case from him, taking out a single bottle and handing it to him. “I’ve been so busy; I haven’t seen you in forever.” She walks to the fridge starts putting the beer inside.

Bellamy joins his sister in the living room, sitting down in the recliner. “I’ve been doing pretty well. Chaos at the precinct has settled down the past month. Even the doomsday rallies have ceased as we all wait for the big plan to commence.” Clarke brings a couple of beers over to the couch with her and sits next to Octavia. “Although, we still get the occasional idiot blaming the invasion on the ‘homosexuals’.”

Clarke nearly chokes on her drink. Her response is cut off by the ringing of the doorbell. “That should be the food. I’ll be right back.” She puts down her bottle and answers the door.

As she is paying for the food, she hears a dull thud and grunting. She quickly makes her way back to the living room to see Bellamy in a headlock and satisfaction painted across Octavia’s face. Clarke’s worry immediately dissipates and she sets the food on the countertop.

“If you children are done, the food is ready,” she scolds them. Octavia pushes herself up using Bellamy’s back, causing him to sprawl out onto the hardwood floor. She walks over to the cabinets to take out plates and utensils.

“He started it,” she mumbles. Bellamy makes his way over to the girls, dusting himself off.

“I did not,” he argues as he starts removing the tops from the food containers.

“Did you challenge her to a wrestling match again?” Clarke asks. Bellamy looks affronted by this assumption and starts explaining himself.

“I only said that I could still beat her up if I really tried.” Octavia scoffs.

“It sure looked like you were giving it your very best, but it turns out you are still no match for me.” Bellamy looks to Clarke for some backup, but she shakes her head as she finishes taking her share of food.

“I have no sympathy for you, Bell. You knew exactly what you were getting into once you told her that.”

Octavia laughs in his face and mouths ‘she loves me more’ before joining Clarke on the couch with her own plate. Bellamy piles his plate and returns to the living room.

“Gosh, Bell.” Octavia eyes his plate. “Are you expecting? You seem to be eating for two over there.” He flips her off.

Clarke nudges Octavia with her elbow. “His crankiness must be because of his raging hormones. You know how pregnant people get.” They laugh and Bellamy rolls his eyes.

“Screw you guys.”

 

//

 

“I’m not heading off to fight, O.” Clarke grunts as Octavia’s arms wrap around her in a bruising hug.

“I know, but over there you will be close to the front. It’s scary to think about. Are you scared? I would be. Shit. I’m totally not helping am I? And I’m being unprofessional. I’m going to let go now.” Octavia finishes rambling, squeezing Clarke’s body one last time before letting go. Clarke smiles and adjusts the duffle bag strap on her shoulder.

“It’s okay, O. I’ll admit I am a little scared, but I’ll be back in a couple of days.” Octavia smiles, taking a step back. She straightens her back and lifts up her chin. Clarke mirrors her actions with a small smile on her face.

Octavia stands at attention and salutes Clarke. “Safe travels, Ma’am.”

“I’ll see you soon, O,” Clarke nods before turning around and heading to the hangar.

Clarke arrives at the transport and engages in some mindless small talk with some fellow ranking officers. A few minutes into the conversation, her companions glance behind her and someone calls ‘Attention!’ Everyone immediately snaps to attention.

“At ease.” Her shoulders relax at the sound of a familiar voice. She turns around to face the approaching officer.

“Good morning, Colonel.” Clarke greets her mother. The other officers return to their conversations.

“Good morning, Major. May I speak to you for a moment?” Clarke nods.

“Yes, Ma’am. Right away Ma’am.” Clarke follows her mother to stand just out of earshot of everyone else.

“How are you, Clarke?” Abby asks.

“I’m doing well. I’m just a little nervous. This is my first time out of the country.” Abby nods her head in understanding.

“You’ll do just fine. I’m proud of you, Clarke. You have done well for yourself, despite everything that has happened these past several years. I know your father would be very proud of you as well.” Clarke feels tears form in her eyes at the mention of her dad. She blinks them back and smiles warmly at her mom.

“Thanks, Mom. That means a lot.” Clarke takes a step forward for a hug, but hesitates. Abby notices the hesitation and grabs a hold of Clarke’s shoulder, bringing her into a tight hug.

“I love you, Clarke.”

“I love you too.”

 

/

 

The sliding of the metal door startles Clarke from her sleep. Still a little disorientated, she removes her dress cap from her face and slowly sits up in her seat. She got very little sleep on the flight over the Atlantic, and upon her arrival, she was immediately led to a Royal Air Force helicopter. They took off for London right away, so naturally, Clarke nodded off within the first couple minutes in the air.

Clarke looks out the window as they pass Big Ben. Her hands itch the draw the details of the London skyline. In better circumstances, she would have been pressed up against the window, trying to commit every detail to memory. Instead, she pulls her jacket back on and prepares herself for her meeting. As they descend upon Trafalgar Square, Clarke’s stomach churns. This will be her first time meeting the general and nervous does not begin to explain how she is currently feeling. The helicopter touches down in the square and she steps down, surveying her surroundings. She secures her cap on her head and walks to meet the woman waiting to escort her to the UDF headquarters.

When they arrive to Headquarters, Clarke is led up the marble stairs and through the front doors. The escort brings her right outside the main office, and an older man in a dusty grey suit greets them.

“I can take it from here, thank you,” he says to the escort and she bids them both goodbye. The man turns to Clarke. “Good morning, Major. My name is Dante. Please feel free to take a seat while I inform the general of your arrival.”

“Thank you, Dante.” He turns on his heel, leaving Clarke alone. She takes a seat, removing her cap. She waits a few minutes, watching several officers and other officials pass back and forth.

Dante returns from around the corner and gives her a warm smile. “The general will see you now.”

Clarke gives him a thankful smile and rises to follow Dante through the doors of the office. He leads her past several tables where UDF officers and personnel are busy working. Clarke nods to the military police guarding the double doors to the general’s office. Dante and Clarke pass through the double doors, and at the far end of the room, General Jaha sits at his desk, reading some paperwork. His head rises at the sound of the door opening.

“Good morning, General,” Clarke greets him. The general gives her a firm nod and looks to his assistant.

“Good morning, Major,” General Jaha greets Clarke. He turns his attention back to Dante. “Thank you, Dante. That will be all.” Dante ducks his head and closes the door behind Clarke. General Jaha watches her with a critical eye before gesturing for her to come join him.

Clarke looks about the room as she makes her way over to the general’s desk. There is a long conference table in the middle of the room. There are various sculptures across the room and some paintings are mounted on the marble walls. The logo of the UDF is on the wall above where the general sits, and below that is a digital map of Europe, displaying the regions occupied by the Mimics and the various UDF soldiers. Next to the map are the flags of the nations within the coalition. On the opposite side is a false painting, opened at its hinges to reveal a large safe.

General Jaha stands as she approaches his desk. “Thank you for joining me this morning. I know midnight flights aren’t the easiest to get through.” Clarke nods her head, giving him a polite smile.

“It was no trouble at all. I’m glad to be of service.” General Jaha nods and turns to the map behind him. Clarke clears her throat, shifting on her feet. “How exactly may I be of service, Sir?”

“Operation Downfall,” he says simply. Clarke walks around the desk to join him. “We will have the entire might of the UDF invading from France, the Mediterranean and Scandinavia.” Clarke nods politely, but she feels out of place, sending awkward glances towards the general as he explains the war strategy further. “This will relieve pressure in the Eastern front, allowing the Russian and Chinese forces to push the enemy back. We all meet in the middle, exterminating this Mimic scourge along the way.”

A beat.

“A lot of good soldiers are going to die tomorrow, Major,” he says solemnly, turning to face Clarke. “When the smoke clears and the body bags start coming home, people tend to look for someone to blame; someone like me. Ideally, I’d prefer a different scenario.” He gives her a tight lipped smile before moving towards his chair. “Please, sit.”

Clarke stands straighter before making her way towards the chair opposite of General Jaha’s. This is why she was brought here, to help curtail the outrage that will come with the death toll of the final battle. It’s nothing she hasn’t done before.

“A best-selling memoir, perhaps?” she suggests, the gears turning in her head to come up with other possible ideas to increase the general’s appeal. “Or maybe a career in politics?” General Jaha folds his hands over his desk, face impassive. Clarke crosses her legs and leans back in her seat, sighing and resting her cap on her lap. “Off the top of my head, I would go with the sense of manifest destiny. Rags to riches, rapid rise through the ranks, or something close to that. The people love that sort of thing,” she finishes with a smile.

“I’m afraid there is a misunderstanding here, Major,” he sighs. “I didn’t ask you to come to London to sell me. I need you to sell the invasion.”

“Okay,” she says.

“I know you have been giving interviews promoting the jackets, and thanks to you, we have had a massive influx of enlistees into the UDF. But it isn’t enough, we need to do more,” he trails off. Clarke leans forward, looking at the general expectantly. “You ship out to the coast in an hour, with a camera crew standing by. You’ll be on the beach with the first wave.”

Clarke’s face falls. She shakes her head slightly in confusion “I’m sorry. First wave? The beach? You mean,” she pauses, still not believing what she just heard, “the front?”

“France,” the general says impatiently. He turns to cast a quick glance at the map. “Satellite images show minimal movement and little resistance on the coast. It will be exciting, something to tell your children and grandchildren about.”

“I appreciate the confidence, General. It’s just - I do this to avoid doing that,” she chuckles, flashing him a charming smile. He doesn’t bat an eye. “Sir, I used to own an advertising firm. Once the war broke out, that went under. My ROTC experience in college and family ties to the military, granted me the opportunity to be where I am today. I do what I do, and you do what you do. But I’m not a soldier, really.”

“No. Of course, you’re not. That’s why I am embedding you down there with several thousand men, women, and people who are.”

“While it is an honor to be considered, I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline. I’d be more than happy to point you towards officers who are better qualified for the job, of course.” General Jaha narrows his gaze at her.

“It’s not an offer, Major Griffin. It’s an order.” Clarke’s sucks in a breath, attempting to hold back the anger that she feels surfacing.

“General,” she starts, her voice steady. “I am an officer in the United States military. You don’t even have the authority-”

“I’ve already spoken to your CO. You are now under my command,” he reveals, raising his chin. Clarke just stares at him incredulously. “You will retain your present rank, of course. My secretary has all the details.”

He looks away from Clarke, and continues going through the paperwork on his desk. Clarke sits before him, unable to move or speak. Clarke’s unfocused gaze snaps back to the general when he speaks again.

“Do a good job, Major. Good luck. You are dismissed,” he waves her off, not looking up from his work.

Clarke quietly shudders and slowly stands up. Blood rushes into her ears as she sluggishly makes her way towards the exit. This isn’t why she came here. She thought she was going to be safe. She told Octavia that she would be safe, that she would be back in no time at all. Her mother. Clarke’s heart begins to race, and she feels panic settle into every cell of her body. How would her mother react? Does she already know? Clarke realizes that she cannot allow this to happen. She may be a coward, but she’s willing to do anything to ensure that she remains safe. She stops halfway to the door and steels her nerves.

“General.” He looks up, confused as to why she is still in his office. “I just inspired millions of people to join your army,” she breathes. “And when the body bags come home and they’re looking for someone to blame, how hard do you think it would be for me to convince people to blame you?” She allows the words to settle between the two of them, meeting his icy glare with one of her own. “I’d imagine that the general would prefer to avoid that.”

General Jaha slowly leans forward, resting his weight onto his elbows. “Are you blackmailing me?”

Clarke centers her weight, squaring her shoulders. “I would prefer not to be filming acts of... heroism and valor on that beach tomorrow.”

The general rises from his seat, walking around his desk and towards Clarke. She feels sweat trickling down her back and she gulps as he approaches her, but she stands her ground. He gives her a sympathetic smile, catching her off guard.

“Very well, Major.” His voice is warm, unsettlingly so. “You won’t be.”

“I’m glad we could work this out,” she manages to say, her voice only slightly wavering. “Now if you will excuse me, General.” He smiles at her, baring his teeth.

Clarke turns around, stumbling into one of the conference table chairs. She recovers her footing and starts walking towards the door. The general follows close behind, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The doors open and she mutters thanks to the general. His eyes harden as she turns away from him, fitting her cap on her head.

She makes it a few steps away, before her blood runs cold.

“Arrest this woman.”

General Jaha’s command silences the entire room. Clarke looks up to see everyone staring at her. She whirls around, looking at the general with sheer panic on her face.

“What?”

He clasps his hands behind his back, glowering at her before disappearing into his office.

Clarke glances at the guards, watching realization settle over their features. With no further hesitation, she bolts towards the exit. The guards shout after her and give chase. Clarke pushes past the personnel blocking her way, some making attempts to grab her. She turns the hallway, knocking down a passing secretary. Papers scatter across the floor, making one of the pursuing soldiers lose his footing. Clarke looks up. She can see the doors leading outside. She is almost there.

Another soldier steps in front of her, aiming his stun gun in her direction. She attempts to dodge the projectiles. She hears the crackling of electricity before her entire body freezes and her legs buckle.

Everything goes black before she even hits the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke shivers. The cool air brushes across her face, stirring her from her sleep. She moves to snuggle further into her pillow, only to feel the rough stitching of a duffle bag strap dig into her cheek. The sounds of trucks driving by and a few helicopters passing overhead makes Clarke furrow her brow in confusion. She slowly opens her eyes and sees herself in the middle of a bustling military base. She looks down to see her wrists bound in handcuffs. Her earlier encounter with the General comes back to her as she feels someone kick roughly kick the bags underneath her.

“On your feet, Maggot!” Clarke’s head whips up to see a burly looking man glaring down at her, holding a neatly folded pile of clothes.

She scrambles to her feet, her muscles aching in protest. She barely manages to hold back her wince as she steadies herself in front of him. She squares her shoulders, tilting her head up to meet his glower with one of her own.

“That is no way to address an officer, Sergeant,” she cautions, taking a small step closer to him.

“It is how I address a slack jawed recruit, right before I bust their face with my boot heel, Maggot!” He grits his teeth, shoving the uniform and boots into her chest. The movement knocks the wind out of her, but it isn’t the lack of air that makes her head spin. She blinks up at him in confusion, trying to understand what is happening.

The sergeant’s face is red with anger. Right before he opens his mouth to scream at her again, a woman with scarring on the left half of her face approaches them.

“Hold up, Sergeant Quint! You can leave her with me. I’ll take care of her,” she finishes, turning her attention to Clarke. Sergeant Quint gives her a wicked smile before marching off.

“Can I help you, Ma’am?” she asks Clarke, her voice hard.

Clarke sighs in relief, glancing at the woman’s tags before scanning her surroundings again, trying to make some sense of her situation. “Where the hell am I, Sergeant?”

“Forward Operating Base Heathrow,” she answers, eyeing Clarke carefully. “You just came in with the new recruits.” Clarke looks at her, slightly offended.

“Do I really look like a recruit to you, Sergeant?” The sergeant clenches her jaw and takes in Clarke’s appearance. Her sloppy officer uniform, void of any tags or insignias. Her messed up bun, with loose hairs framing her face. When her eyes meet Clarke’s again, she seems to be holding back a laugh.

“No, Ma’am. You do not.” Clarke nods her head in approval, raising her chin.

“My name is Major Clarke Griffin,” Clarke begins. “I’m an American Officer-”

“Officer?” the sergeant interrupts her. “I’m afraid there are no officers here in processing.” Clarke exhales forcefully through her nose, attempting to keep her frustration from showing. “How did you find yourself here?” she asks Clarke in a condescending tone. “What was it? Bachelorette party gone awry?”

Clarke clenches her jaw, keeping her voice steady. “If it’s all the same to you, Sergeant. I’d rather explain that to my commanding officer in Washington, so if you’ll just take me to a phone.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Clarke gives her a confused look. “Preparations are being made to invade France. This whole FOB is on lockdown. That means no calls, in or out.”

Clarke starts to feel dizzy again. There is no way that this can be happening without some sort of consequences. She looks down at the sergeant’s name tag. “Your name’s Trikru?”

“That’s correct. Master Sergeant Indra Trikru,” she confirms, standing up straighter.

“Master Sergeant Trikru,” Clarke repeats. “Look at me. I don’t belong here. It’s very easy to see that I’ve been set up. So come on, there has to be some way that I can make a simple phone call.”

“Very well.” Clarke holds back her sigh of relief. “We’ll get everything sorted out, Ma’am. Please, follow me.”

Clarke follows Master Sergeant Trikru across the base. Every attempt that Clarke makes at small talk has been either completely ignored or answered with one word. Clarke notices a few soldiers with the red “MP” armband escorting them to wherever they are headed. The master sergeant nods to one of them, and they take the fatigues and boots from Clarke’s hands to carry it themselves.

“So where are you from?” Clarke asks, giving it another try.

“Washington D.C.” Clarke perks up at the answer.

“That’s where I live. Have you been there long?”

“Born and raised.”

“I moved there a couple years before the war,” Clarke explains. “I still haven’t been through the entire National Mall yet.”

“That’s a shame,” Master Sergeant Trikru drones before quickening her pace, and stopping in front of the ‘C’ garrison.

Clarke is about to respond when she notices where they are. She stops walking, and the master sergeant gestures for Clarke to enter.

“After you.” Clarke wants to laugh, but all she can muster is a grimace. She looks at the soldiers behind her, each one regards her with cold eyes. She turns back to the master sergeant.

“You’re not taking me to phone.” She meant it as a question, but she already knows the answer.

“No. I’m not,” Master Sergeant Trikru states, her voice laced with hostility. She approaches Clarke, reaching into her left jacket pocket, pulling out a memorandum.

“The only truth you have given me so far is your name.” She lifts the paper up before slapping it down into her palm. “It says here you’re a deserter. That you were caught trying to impersonate an officer. That you would try to make an outside call to jeopardize the security of Operation Downfall. That you would do just about anything to get out of combat duty tomorrow.”

Clarke pales. Jaha cannot do this. He won’t get away with this, she’s sure of it. She is sure that her mother would do just about anything to make sure she gets back safely. Octavia is probably tearing through the Pentagon right now, trying to find a way to get her back home. That is, if she even suspects anything is wrong. Only a couple of hours have passed since Clarke’s presence at the UDF headquarters.

“But that’s not going to ever happen, Private Griffin.” Master Sergeant Trikru turns away from Clarke, gesturing towards the garrison once more. Clarke is then shoved from behind by one of the soldiers, so she makes her way inside.

Soldiers closest to the entrance stop what they are doing to watch Clarke walk in with the master sergeant. As Clarke walks further down the pathway, more soldiers stop to stare. There are whispers and glares, while some even spit at her feet as she walks by.

“Rumors can be terrible things,” the master sergeant comments without looking at Clarke. “Have no doubt, that by nightfall, every single soldier in this barrack will have heard of you, Private. The deserter. The coward. The liar. The one who would put her life before her fellow soldiers.”

Clarke hears growling to her right. She turns to see three women staring her down, baring their teeth. They have white face paint streaked across their faces, making them look much more menacing. Master Sergeant Trikru clears her throat, bringing Clarke’s attention back to her.

“Luckily for you, there is hope for redemption. Out on the front is where you will be absolved in your wrongdoings. Baptized in the blood of the enemy. Or…” she trails off, glancing towards Clarke. The blonde is staring straight ahead with vacant eyes. “...your weakness will become clear to you as you perish on the sand.” Clarke’s throat dries up as she holds back tears.

The master sergeant crosses in front of Clarke and walks towards a section of bunks. “Squad!” The soldiers scramble to their feet, jumping off of the beds to stand at attention. The master sergeant walks into the middle of the room, surveying the group. She turns around to face Clarke who stands at the entrance. “At ease. This is Private Griffin. Private Griffin, meet ‘J’ Squad.”

“Hey, isn’t that an officer’s uniform?” asks one of the soldiers as he studies Clarke, adjusting his goggles on his head.

“Excellent observation, Jordan,” another soldier responds, standing with her arms crossed. Her blonde hair is braided back, showing off her high cheekbones. Her face is impassive, but her gaze makes Clarke’s skin itch. “But those certainly aren’t officer cufflinks.”

Master Sergeant Trikru begins walking around the beds, making sure everything looks in order. “I can see everyone is having a productive morning.”

Clarke takes this opportunity to look at the rest of the soldiers. While the blonde and the one with the goggles are looking at her with contrasting expressions, one of the soldiers with a grey bandana around her head is fidgeting near one of the single beds. The one closest to her scans her from head to toe. When his eyes meet hers, he flips his hair out of his face and sends her a small smirk. Another soldier, with her brown hair tied back in a bun, rolls her eyes at his behavior. The last soldier stands at the far end of the room, towering over everyone in the room and regarding her curiously.

“It brings me great comfort to know that soldiers of your caliber will be on that beach tomorrow,” the master sergeant comments, still looking around the room. Her eyes focus on the single bed near the fidgeting solder. The duvet looks to be quickly thrown over the mattress, but not well enough.

“What the hell is this?” She pulls back the duvet to reveal playing cards and a pile of money scattered about. All the soldiers in the room collectively groan. “Private Collins.” The soldier with the long hair stands at attention as the master sergeant approaches him with the gathered deck of cards. “What is my opinion on gambling in the barracks?” she asks him, holding out the deck to him.

“You dislike it, Sergeant Trikru,” he responds, taking a single card from the deck.

“Harper, why do I dislike it?” The soldier with the bandana picks up a card.

“Ma’am, because it's a game of chance,” Harper answers, tearing her card into small pieces. Master Sergeant Trikru walks to each soldier, allowing them to take a card. “And because it entertains the notion that our fate is in hands other than our own.”

“And what do I think about chance, J Squad?” the master sergeant asks, tossing the remaining deck back onto the bed.

“There is no chance. There is only choice, and our choices are our own. We are the masters of our own fate,” they recite, proceeding to eat the cards in their hands.

“You may find this notion ironic, Private Griffin.” Clarke’s attention is pulled away from the soldiers towards the master sergeant who walks towards her. “Private Griffin here is a deserter, and I am leaving you all personally responsible for making sure she is combat ready.” The soldiers’ stares harden, and Clarke refrains from squirming where she stands. “She is under the delusion that she does not belong here. You all will dissuade her from this delusion, and if she resists, you will dissuade her until she can barely lay comfortably in her bunk tonight.”

“Sergeant, you don’t understand-” The uniform and boots are shoved into Clarke’s chest once again, cutting off her pleas.

Master Sergeant Trikru threatening glare dares Clarke to speak again. She doesn’t.

“Private Greene,” the master sergeant says, not taking her eyes off of Clarke.

“Ma’am,” responds the soldier with the blonde braid.

“Keep your squad in check. The gambling incident will not happen again. Am I clear?” she asks, glancing at Private Greene.

“Crystal, Sergeant Trikru.”

The master sergeant nods once and turns on her heel, striding away without another word. After she leaves, soldiers from other bunks stand outside of the ‘J’ bunk entrance, looking Clarke up and down with disdain. Clarke’s eyes dart from soldier to soldier, her hope dissipating with each glower she sees. She feels a rush of air behind her. She turns around and startles at the close proximity of Private Greene.

“You’re out of uniform, Private,” Private Greene observes. “Fix it.”

Later that night, Clarke drudges back into the bunks from the mess hall. Her limbs are stiff and her back twinges as she climbs up the ladder to her mattress. Her day has been hell. She wasn’t used to over exerting her body anymore. She should have taken up Octavia’s many offers to join her for workouts. Clarke’s chest tightens at the thought of her best friend. She knows that Octavia was expecting a call from her after her meeting with the general. Clarke’s eyes burn with tears as she imagines how worried Octavia is. Her best friend surely would have contacted her mother by now.

“Hey, Princess.” Clarke quickly wipes the tears from her eyes before slowly sitting up to look down at Private Collins.

He gave her this nickname not even 5 minutes after she had changed into the proper uniform. The name annoys her, but she doesn’t have enough energy to do anything about it. He looks up at her with a smirk. She fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“What can I do for you, Private Collins?” He clicks his tongue, pushing his hair out of his face.

“I told you that you can call me Finn, Princess,” he responds leaning his shoulder against the side of her bunk. “I figured that you would need a friend while you’re here.” He quirks his brow, giving Clarke another once over.

“I’m not interested in the type of ‘friendship’ you’re offering,” Clarke responds, scooting further away from him.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that.” He steps closer.

“I said no, Private Collins.” He narrows his eyes at her harsh tone. He studies her, while Clarke considers the ramifications of kicking him in the face.

“Leave her alone, Collins.” A deep voice breaks the moment.

“I was just talking to her, Miller.” Clarke sighs in relief at the sight of Miller standing at the entrance. He walks over to stand in between her and Finn. Finn’s composure falters as Miller towers over him. “Whatever. I’m gonna go piss,” Finn huffs, storming out of the room.

“He was probably about to piss himself,” Clarke observes absentmindedly. Miller chuckles, removing his jacket, draping it across his mattress.

“I assure you that it wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, walking over to the trunk at the foot of his bed. He pulls out a sketchbook and pencils, before sitting on the single bed next to Clarke.

“Thank you, by the way,” she thanks him, watching him work.

“No problem. I have known guys like that my whole life, and I can’t stand them.” He pauses, considering his words, before continuing with his sketching. “I also have a little sister, so my hate for those type of people are much greater.”

“How old she?” Clarke asks, seizing the opportunity to engage in a conversation where she isn’t being glared at or hit on.

“She just turned 14 about a month ago. Do you have any siblings?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I’m an only child, but I have a best friend who is basically my sister.” His lips curl into a small smile.

“My best friend was like a brother to me as well,” he says, with a sadness in his voice. Clarke studies him as his smile falls into a frown.

She isn’t sure if she should ask about his choice of words, so she comments on his art instead. “It’s beautiful.” He looks up at her in surprise, not expecting her to respond with that. “Your landscape,” she clarifies, nodding her head at the book in his lap. “I prefer landscapes and figures, but I’m a sucker for a skyline in the right lighting.”

“You sketch?” He is smiling again.

Clarke smiles back, nodding her head. “I prefer charcoal over graphite though.”

He sets his book and pencils down on the bed next to him and moves to rummage through his trunk. He pulls out another sketchbook and small tin case. He hands them to her, and she opens the case, seeing several unused sticks of charcoal inside. She closes the lid; a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“I received those in my last care package, but I don’t use them,” he shrugs. “And I have plenty of sketchbooks, so keep it.” She gives him a thankful smile and looks back down at her gifts.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

“No problem.”

He sits back on his bed and continues working. Clarke opens the book, running her fingers over the blank page. She sets it down and opens the lid of the case again, pulling out a single stick. She spins it between her forefingers, relishing in the familiar texture. It makes her miss home even more, but her happiness in this moment is enough to briefly relieve the aching in her chest.

Activity in the barracks continues around them, but in this moment they sit in comfortable silence. They draw to their hearts’ content, soothed by the sounds of their tools gliding against paper. Clarke starts off with a few lines, sketching with no particular place in mind, but as time passes, she starts to recognize the image before her.

It’s the D.C. skyline.


	3. Chapter 3

“Come on. Just punch me in the face.”

“Jasper, I’m not going to punch you in the face.”

Clarke and Miller look over to the two soldiers walking into the room. Jasper is pleading with his hands clasped together, trailing behind an annoyed looking Harper.

“Is Jass trying to go see that one nurse again?” Miller asks with an amused smile. Harper nods her head, plopping down on her bottom bunk on the other side of the room.

“Yes. He saw her and her friends heading to the infirmary when we were heading back,” she explains. “Now he is fishing for an excuse to go see her.”

Jasper stands in the middle of the room, bouncing on his feet. “I want to invite her to tonight.”

“You don’t need to have an injury as an excuse to go talk to her,” Miller points out, shaking his head. Clarke holds back a smile, knowing that even though Miller seems to be okay with her, the rest of the squad doesn’t seem to be.

“Just woman up, and go ask her,” Private Echo says, walking into the room. Private Greene follows close behind and casts a quick glance over at Clarke, who quickly ducks her head to stare at her sketchbook.

“Are you insane?” Jasper gasps before taking a moment to consider his question. “Well, actually you are.”

Echo grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls him forward. “Now that I think about it, I would be more than happy to beat the shit out of you and send you to that girlfriend of yours,” she growls.

Harper laughs as Jasper cowers in fright. Clarke looks to Miller with a worried expression, and he just shrugs.

“You will do no such thing,” Private Greene says, stopping the situation before it escalates. “Let him go, Echo.” Echo tightens her grip, before shoving him away. Jasper brushes himself off and gives her a smug grin. He opens his mouth to speak, but Private Greene walks over and slaps the back of his head. Jasper yelps in surprise. “Cut the shit, Private, before word about that stash of yours gets out to one of the higher ups.”

Jasper eyes widen and he whips his head around to face her. “Y-You wouldn’t do that. It would ruin our entire night.”

Private Greene narrows her gaze, and Jasper visibly gulps. “Try me, Private Jordan.”

He studies her face for a couple seconds before sagging his shoulders in defeat. “Fine,” he sighs. “Well, I got to go see about a girl. I’ll be back.”

As Jasper leaves the room, Finn returns from his hour long trip to the latrines. He sends a wink Clarke’s way before walking towards his bed above Harper’s. Clarke rolls her eyes at him and then hears stifled laughing across the room. She makes eye contact with Echo, who gives her an approving nod.

“So,” Finn says as he lies back on his pillow. “What time are the festivities supposed to start?”

“Probably within the next couple of hours,” Harper responds. “I think we are heading over to laundry. Right, Anya?”

“We are,” Private Greene confirms. “It's the easiest to access since they don't lock it up, and the route there has few patrols, if at all.”

“Getting shitfaced while surrounded by my fellow soldiers’ underwear?” Finn groans. “Not really my idea of a party.”

“Feel free to stay behind, pretty boy,” Echo says, rolling her eyes. “More for everyone else.”

“You know I never turn down free alcohol. Who knows? I may get lucky and find something that belongs to the little princess over there.” Clarke grimaces as he sends her another wink.

“Does that usually work?” Clarke asks, catching him off guard.

“Excuse me?”

“Does that whole arrogant display of testosterone really work for you? Because it seems like you may be compensating for what you surely lack,” Clarke punctuates the end of her statement with a glance down.

Finn’s clenches his jaw as his face turn red. Harper and Echo howl with laughter while Miller gives her an approving grin. Finn huffs and crosses his arms, but says nothing.

“Well, it looks like Private Griffin has some fire in her after all,” Anya smirks before turning towards Finn. “Collins, I don't have time to deal with the little pissbaby routine. Get it together.”

A little while later, Jasper returns and informs the group that he will have a plus one for tonight. When he asks about Finn’s mood, Clarke rolls her eyes, and everyone else shrugs and mumbles unintelligibly.

“Hey, Miller,” Clarke says while the rest of the squad is busy with preparing for tonight. Miller looks up from his sketchbook. The landscape has evolved beautifully within the past hour. “This might be a stupid question, but why is everyone intent on getting wasted the night before the beach?”

“Something about tradition,” he shrugs. “Jasper, Echo, and Anya have been together for the past couple years. The rest of us got transferred to J after Verdun. Apparently, this is the way we prep for battle.” He looks down and plays with the end of his pencil. “Not that I mind though. No one knows what will happen tomorrow, so might as well enjoy the time we have to ourselves.”

“I can understand that,” Clarke says quietly, looking down at her hands.

“Hey, Nerds,” Echo calls out to the two of them. “Put your coloring books away and get ready to head out.”

After putting their supplies away, Clarke and Miller pull on their jackets. Jasper grabs his pack, stuffing a couple handles of moonshine inside. Harper places two unused decks into her jacket pockets. Echo and Finn move to stand by Anya, who waits near the exit as the rest of the squad gathers what they need to head out.

“Is everyone ready?” Anya asks, scanning the other squad bunks, seeing everyone tucked into their beds or otherwise preoccupied. She hears a couple affirming hums behind her, and without turning around she signals for the squad to move out.

Everyone moves silently together, exiting the garrison and making their way towards the laundry facilities. There are only a couple times Anya holds the squad back, waiting for patrols to pass by before continuing on.

They are about 100 feet from their destination when the sound of gunfire and machinery startles Clarke, causing her to stop suddenly. Miller bumps into her and she whispers her apology.

“It's cool,” he whispers back, turning his attention to where Clarke’s gaze is fixed.

She is looking at the entrance to the training warehouse. There are two familiar looking soldiers standing near the entrance, dressed in all black. Their fur-lined uniform jackets have three crimson stripes wrapped around the left biceps. Gunfire echos from the building, but the soldiers don't seem perturbed by it.

“The Grounders are on guard duty,” Miller whispers to her as they slowly move along. “Valkyrie One seems to be having another late night training session.” The mention of Alexandria Woods causes Clarke to recall the day’s earlier events. Her arms ache at the memory of those dreaded Iso pushups.

“Move your asses, Privates. You can take up sightseeing another time,” Anya whispers harshly at the two. They quicken their pace in response. Clarke takes another glance at the warehouse before it disappears from view.

When they arrive at the laundry facilities, they enter the building through the unlocked door. They move through the corridors until they walk into an extremely large room filled with rows of washers and dryers. In the far corner of the room, there is a long couch and a few recliners surrounding a decent sized coffee table. The furniture seems out of place among the laundry carts and mesh bags of laundry. A woman wearing camouflage scrubs sits up from one of the recliners as they approach. Her short black hair is loose around her shoulders, with a slight crease from being up in a bun all day.

Jasper’s mouth curls into a large goofy grin when he sees her. “Hey, Maya.”

She smiles shyly back at him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Hi, Jasper.”

Jasper turns to face the squad and begins introductions. “Squad, meet Maya.” Everyone waves at the brunette. “Maya meet J Squad.” He then proceeds to inform her of each soldier’s name.

After introductions, they start off with a couple rounds of shots, each taking a swig of the bottle since they don’t have any cups. They dissolve into separate conversations before Harper tears the packaging off her cards and shuffles the decks together. Everyone reaches into their pockets to pull out money. Clarke feels out of place, because she has zero possessions besides her uniforms and Miller’s gifts.

Miller, sensing her discomfort, divides his money up, giving Clarke a portion of it. Harper sees what he is doing, and nudges Echo. They follow suit, and soon the entire squad does the same, even Finn who hasn’t spared Clarke a glance since the incident in the bunk. Clarke opens her mouth to protest, but Miller shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Despite the circumstances you are still part of the squad, and we look after our own. Even with the little things.”

These actions by the same people who looked at her with nothing but distrust and disgust earlier forces Clarke’s eyes to water. She doesn’t really know what to say, but she is sure she would break down into a sobbing mess if she tried to speak.

“Nope. None of that shit,” Echo says, wagging her finger at Clarke. “We aren’t drunk enough to get emotional about stupid shit.”

Despite her words, the tone of her voice lets Clarke know that she doesn’t really think it’s all that stupid. Miller nudges Clarke’s shoulder with his own, giving her a sympathetic smile. She smiles back and looks around the table, clearing her throat.

“So are we going to start playing or what?” Jasper pumps his fist in the air.

“Hell yes! You’re going down, Griffin.” Miller laughs and shakes his head.

“You’re the worst at Texas Hold ‘em, Jass.” Jasper pouts and Maya pats his shoulder. “You’ll probably lose it all within the first five hands.”

“Five?” Harper scoffs. “More like the first two.”

“Thanks for the overwhelming display of confidence everyone,” Jasper grumbles.

“Then how about you prove them wrong?” Anya offers. “Less shit talking, and more playing.”

“Finally,” Finn sighs.

/

The blaring of alarms startle Clarke awake from her sleep. She sits up, disorientated for a couple seconds before seeing the rest of her squad jumping out of their beds.

“On your feet, Griffin!” Anya yells over the alarms and echoing radios. “Time to suit up.”

Clarke scrambles to her feet, throwing on her uniform and pulling her hair into a bun. The adrenaline rushing through her veins and the haze of a slight hangover doesn’t allow her to fully process the fact that she is gearing up for war. It doesn’t fully hit her until she walks into the armory, seeing rows of ExoSuits and soldiers rushing in every direction.

As her squad jogs to their jackets, she sees excitement in most of the passing soldiers’ faces. Others look in awe at their jackets as if it is their first time stepping into one. For all Clarke knows, it may be.

The squad makes a sharp right, and Clarke sees the names of her squad emblazoned on each jacket. Everyone makes their way to their jackets, going through routine checks. Clarke stands frozen, staring at the jacket that has “C. Griffin” inscribed on it. Clarke doesn’t hear anything except for the blood rushing through her veins. Her trance is broken when Anya grabs her arm, dragging her towards the ExoSuit.

“Come on, Griffin.” Clarke can do nothing but follow.

Across the lane, Echo is fully strapped in, running in place to get a feel for her suit. Harper moves her arms around, testing the mobility of the suit. Jasper’s suit clicks into place, and he knocks the polycarbonate arms together for good measure. Miller rolls his neck in circles with his eyes closed and his breathing controlled. Finn strips down to nothing right before stepping into his suit. Clarke grimaces.

“Aw come on, Collins! No one wants to see that shit!” Echo groans in disgust.

“I gotta feel free, man!” Finn shrugs as his suit clicks into place, thankfully covering him up.

Anya helps Clarke step into the suit and moves to the control panel next to the jacket. She presses a few controls and Clarke’s jacket begins to click into place, securing itself around her body. With each click, Clarke feels like she is suffocating. Sweat collects on her upper lip and slides down her back. She moves to wipe her brow, forgetting that her arms are strapped in as well. Anya quickly ducks under the moving arm.

“What the fuck!” She glowers at Clarke, continuing her work at the control panel. “Watch yourself before you hurt someone. Save it for the Mimics.”

“Sorry,” Clarke croaks. Anya moves to manually check to make sure all the jacket is completely secure. She secures Clarke’s helmet, fastening the chin strap a little too tight.

“You would think it’s your first time in one of these,” Anya mutters as Clarke watches the heads-up display on her faceplate come to life.

“It is,” Clarke says, void of emotion. Anya eyes her uncertainly.

“Well, do you at least know where the safety is?” Clarke focuses on Anya’s critical gaze.

“This thing has a safety?” She asks, glancing down at the right hand of the jacket, where the weaponry and suit controls are.

“Exactly,” Anya says with a smirk. She pats the chestpiece of the Clarke’s jacket. “You’ll do just fine.” Clarke looks bewildered as Anya walks away to get into her own suit.

Once the squad is all suited up, they move to join their platoon in formation outside of the armory. Clarke struggles to keep up with the pace of her fellow soldiers. Walking for the first time in the suit is awkward and she feels like she is exerting a tremendous amount of effort to simply lift her feet.

Master Sergeant Trikru arrives to go through final checks before they proceed to their dropship. Her ExoSuit is painted black, matching the warpaint slashed across her eyes. She looks down at the platoon, her eyes lingering a second longer on Clarke, making the blonde wish she could evaporate on the spot. The master sergeant then leads the platoon towards their dropship. As they march, Clarke looks ahead seeing hovercrafts, dropships, and megacarriers land and take off in sequence.

She takes a couple steps out of formation in a last-minute, illogical attempt to flee. Anya and Harper shout her name and take off after her.

About fifteen minutes later, Clarke is secured on the dropship. The soldiers hang from their jackets in a few rows on either side of a walkway, where Master Sergreant Trikru stands, holding onto a hand strap. Echo dangles on Clarke’s left, while Anya and Miller are fastened behind her. Harper, Jasper and Finn are across the walkway. Next to them and directly across from Clarke are the same women she saw earlier yesterday. Red paint is splattered down their chins and necks, spattered across the top of their breastplates. It reminds Clarke of blood. The white face paint is the same as yesterday. The rest of the platoons call their squad the Reapers. One of them makes eye contact with Clarke and growls at her, forcing Clarke to avert her eyes.

She focuses on Jasper, whose cheeks are puffed out as if he is holding back vomit. Master Sergeant Trikru spots him. “Private Jordan! You better not puke.” She can barely be heard above the high-pitched whine of the dropship engines.

Jasper exhales forcefully. “Yes Ma’am!” He takes in deep breaths, slowly letting them out. His face twitches in a grimace once again, and Echo grins.

“You spit up in your jacket, you’re in for a world a’ shit!” Echo shouts across the dropship. She turns to Clarke and notices the strain on the blonde’s face. “You okay there, Griffin?”

Clarke trembles as she speaks, “Sure.”

“We’re gonna be fine,” Echo replies. “I went and got us life insurance. I call her Allie.” Echo taps the M18 Claymore Mine taped to her belly. It doesn’t make Clarke feel any better.

The bay doors open beneath their dangling feet, revealing the churning waves of the open ocean. The cold winds lash at the soldiers’ exposed skin. Clarke gulps, feeling light headed. The faces of Octavia, Bellamy, and her mother flash through her mind and she feels like throwing up. She closes her eyes, willing her breathing to slow down.

“Hey!” A voice calls out to her. Clarke opens her eyes, looking for the source. One of the Reapers in front of her waves her fingers at Clarke. She shoots the blonde a feral grin before continuing. “I think there is something wrong with your suit!”

Clarke’s expression twists in confusion. Another Reaper, next to the first, nods her head. “Yeah, there’s a dead girl in it.” Clarke’s blood runs cold at their wicked grins.

“Knock it off!” Master Sergeant Trikru shouts at them, gripping tighter on the strap. “Ready for drop… Holding… Hold-”

The master sergeant’s orders are cut off as the dropship takes a hit.


	4. Chapter 4

Clarke’s ears ring as her mind comes back into focus. She blinks away the haze, seeing Master Sergeant Trikru shouting something. Clarke looks towards the opposite end of the ship, seeing a gaping hole where the Mimic javelin missile had hit them. The soldiers who were secured by that wall are no longer there. The cords that held them whip wildly in wind.

“Oh God,” Clarke gasps. “Oh God. No.”

“Go! Go! Go!” the master sergeant orders. Jasper is the first to hit his release, and he falls screaming. Other soldiers start hitting their levers, falling one after another. Echo grins at Clarke before falling herself.

“Drop you babies! Drop!”

Clarke watches as a couple others drop, but she can’t bring herself to move. Many other soldiers can’t either. She looks in front of her and makes eye contact with one of the Reapers. The terror in her eyes shakes Clarke to her core.

A second later, another javelin tears through the hull, and Clarke watches as the Reaper disappears in the explosion. Clarke closes her eyes as the heat scorches her face, her body lurching as the dropship takes a nosedive. She reopens her eyes and sees a mechanical arm dangling across from her. One of the soldiers is screaming, echoing the screeching she hears over the radio. Her whole body is ablaze. She flails her arms, and accidentally hits her release. She leaves the scent of burning flesh behind, lingering with the smoke and oil. A soldier to her right hits his release, but then reaches out to grasp the railing.

“God dammit! Drop or die, soldiers!” Master Sergeant Trikru screams, stepping on the dangling soldier’s hand before jumping down after him.

Clarke frantically watches a couple soldiers drop, before she slams her fist down on her release lever. Her stomach drops as she free falls. She screams, watching the beach come into view. Mimic missiles fly through the air, colliding with several other dropships near her. Clarke prepares for her parachute to deploy, but instead she is yanked backwards. Her cord didn’t detach from the ship. A few other soldiers are also still secured by their cords. They are being whipped around as the dropship spins, heading towards the beach. The soldier on fire swings past Clarke, still screaming. Clarke’s stomach lurches. The soldier crashes into another. The loud clunk of metal against metal can be heard above the distant explosions and gunfire. The soldier’s screams stop.

Clarke’s cord suddenly snaps and she screams louder as she approaches the beach. Right before impact, her suit initiates its landing assist, and tiny jets cushion the fall just enough to prevent any broken bones. Sand and water are sent flying as she collides with the shore. She shakily pushes herself up onto her hands and knees, wet sand sliding off her jacket. Her visor falls from her helmet as she clambers up to her feet. She slowly climbs out of the small crater she’s made, as soldiers and trucks stream past her.

“Woohoo!” Clarke whirls around to see Jasper standing triumphantly with his hands in the air. “We made it!” He spots Clarke and smiles. “Hey, Clarke we-”

A flaming dropship lands right on top of him, skidding in the sand towards Clarke. The wave of sand sweeps Clarke off her feet, sending her rolling onto the sand a few feet from where the ship stops. Clarke coughs out sand as she climbs onto her hands and knees. She can’t breathe. Her entire body is shaking. More soldiers run past her, not paying any attention to her or the crushed soldier underneath the 12 tons of metal.

She stands and staggers away from the wreckage. She mindlessly trudges along with the flow of soldiers and vehicles. Lacking the proper training, her movements feel awkward and slow, compared to the soldiers who are running past her with ease. A javelin whizzes past her, and she hears a strangled grunt behind her. She continues moving forward watching soldiers and vehicles get torn apart by the missiles. There is a soldier violently thrashing in the shallow water to her left. As she gets closer, she sees smoke; the wires on his jacket are sparking. He manages to turn onto his back. His panicked eyes bore into Clarke’s as he gurgles, choking on the ocean water and his own blood.

She clenches her eyes shut and forces herself to move forward. She ducks down as another javelin streaks through the air. Missiles from the UDF Combat Carriers lob heavy artillery towards the enemy’s side. Her head throbs as blood rushes through her veins, and her panting joins the chorus of shouts, gunfire, and explosions. She aims her weaponized arm towards the sand and tests the trigger. The control screen flashes and instructions play through her helmet in German. She presses another button, changing the language to Mandarin. As another soldier runs past her, desperately trying to put out the fire on their body. A torn apart dropship passes overhead and crashes into the sand several feet to her right. She gives up on the controls and pushes forward.

There is an explosion behind her, so she turns around. Another dropship is spinning out of control, headed right for her. She exerts every amount of effort she can, running away from the approaching ship. She sees several large craters ahead, and she focuses on the closest one. The ground beneath her shakes as the ship makes impact. Several other soldiers attempt to flee. She ignores the burning in her legs and leaps into the crater. She lands on her stomach and feels the hot air pass over her as sand rains down onto her body. Crawling out of the crater, she sees body parts strewn about the sand. A severed head rolls away and disappears into another crater.

The hull door of the fallen ship flies off its hinges, and two large men stride out onto the battlefield. Fur collars stick out of the black armor, which are adorned with three red stripes on the left arms. Their helmets have wolf skull designs, and black tinted visors. The first soldier taps his metal arms together, and the second rolls his neck around. Behind them, encased in a crimson jacket, walks out The Angel of Verdun Alexandria Woods. Clarke can see her brown hair pulled back into a braided bun. Black oil is streaked across her eyes, coming down her cheeks. Her chin is raised high as she steps out onto the sand. Her hand clenches around her cleaver. The long repurposed helicopter blade, trails behind her as she moves forward. Several more burly soldiers pour out of the fallen ship. She looks to them with regal authority and begins shouting orders. As a unit, they move away from the dropship.

Clarke’s radio starts ringing, and underneath the static she can barely make out pleas for help. She reaches up to tug off her helmet. Strands of hair fall down her face as the helmet tumbles from her head. Free from the chattering of the radio, she now hears screaming and gunfire coming from the Grounder’s dropship. She flattens her body to the sand, and squints her eyes, trying to make sense of the movement she sees behind the veil of smoke.

As the smoke clears, she can make out a couple of Grounders shooting at a rapidly moving Mimic. Its sharp tendrils flail about as it tries to move away from the barrage of bullets. It darts in and strikes at one of the soldiers. He cries out and falls to a knee, but he manages to keep his shooting arm aimed towards the bristling enemy. The bullets pierce through its outer armor, tearing into its body, causing the Mimic to let out a shrill shriek as pieces of biomass fall from its body. The Mimic circles the Grounders, barely dodging another stream of bullets. Its tendril reaches out and wraps around the injured soldier’s ankle, dragging him away from his comrade. It throws him onto the hull of the fallen ship, and drives two of its tendrils into his chest. The Mimic pulls back, allowing the soldier’s dead weight to fall to the floor.

The remaining Grounder yells, and continues shooting at the alien. It whips one of its tendrils across his helmet, sending him flying backwards. There is a clean cut across the side of the helmet, and he reaches up, yanking it off of his head. Oil is smudged down his face, from the scar above his right eye down to his beard. The Mimic makes a move for him, but he fires away, keeping it back. Blood trickles down the cut on the shaved side of his head, where the tendril sliced through the helmet.

When he runs out of bullets, he quickly reaches down to grab an extra magazine. The Mimic capitalizes on this, darting in for the kill. As soon as Clarke thinks it’s over, the tendrils are deflected by a cleaver. Sergeant Major Woods leaps in front of the soldier and charges the Mimic. She gracefully moves around the alien, parrying its quick attempts for lethal strike and cleanly slicing off several appendages. While the Mimic’s attention is focused on her, the soldier stands to his feet, his weapon fully reloaded.

“Jus drein jus daun!” He shouts, taking aim at the enemy.

The sergeant major cleaves off another tendril, before parrying another strike. This time she pushes back, sending the Mimic a few feet away from her. The soldier then unloads on the Mimic. It screeches as it falls apart, and then twists its body, charging the Grounder. It’s intercepted by Sergeant Major Woods. She pushes it back, blocking blows and knocking it away from her. The Grounder continues to shoot at it whenever it’s knocked back. This continues for several more seconds before the Mimic shrieks once more before falling to the ground, twitching and then going still.

The Grounder looks down at his commanding officer and gives her a respectful nod. She nods back, and together they make their way towards where Clarke is still on her stomach. Clarke notices them approaching as pushes herself up. When she is on her hands and knees, she glances up to see them standing a few feet in front of her. Sergeant Major Woods stands tall with her hand on the hilt of her cleaver, the tip pressed into the sand. The Grounder stands on her side, towering over her. Explosions erupt in the background.

The scene looks like one of those recruitment posters. Inspiring. Patriotic. Powerful. Clarke can picture Octavia scoffing about it. _“Get a load of this shit, Clarke.”_

The Grounder looks out at the battlefield, while the sergeant major casts her gaze downwards, spotting Clarke. Her face is impassive, but Clarke sees something flicker in her green eyes for a moment before it disappears. Clarke moves to push herself up, when a couple javelins close in. One explodes behind the Grounder, sending him flying over Clarke. She cries out and ducks down. Hearing a heavy thud next to her, she lifts her head and sees Sergeant Major Woods gasping for air. Smoke rises from the gaping wound in her chest, where the second javelin was driven clean through. She gazes at the sky, her eyes darting back and forth. Panic overtakes her features for a brief second before an unnerving calm settles across her face. Her shallow wheezing slows before the air leaves her lungs for good. As she exhales slowly, the light fades from her eyes.

Clarke doesn’t realize she is crying until she is running away from the crater. Her tongue darts out to lick her salty, chapped lips, and she ignores the burning of her lungs. She pushes past the flow of soldiers, heading back towards the Battle Carriers. She doesn’t know what she's going to do when she gets there. All she knows is she needs to get away.

“Private Griffin,” Master Sergeant Trikru says, as Clarke runs into her. She grabs Clarke’s collar and turns her around. “You’re going the wrong way. You’re going to miss your opportunity for redemption,” the master sergeant finishes, giving Clarke a light shove.

They move forward into trenches, formed from a cluster of large craters. Anya and Miller are pressed up against the slope of the trenches. Echo stumbles in before Clarke does. Other soldiers from their unit are scattered about the area, as more pour in.

“What the hell?” Anya asks in disbelief. “They're not supposed to know we’re even coming.”

Miller wipes sweat from his brow as he stares at the ground. Echo clenches her jaw, exchanging looks with Clarke.

Finn tumbles into the crater, rolling onto the floor and trying to catch his breath. “H-Harper,” he chokes out. “She’s gone. This is a massacre! We walked into a slaughterhouse!” he shouts. No can think of a response.

Clarke uses the silence to look around at the remaining members of J Squad. Underneath the cracked visor of Anya’s helmet, dirt is heavily caked on one side of her face. Half of Miller’s visor is missing, and there is a cut along the exposed side of his jaw. Echo’s hair is sticking to her sweaty face, and there is dried blood at the corner of her mouth. Finn’s eyes are wide, and he trembles where he lies, shaken to the core.

“Pull yourself together, Collins!” Master Sergeant Trikru strides into the crater. “On your feet, soldiers. Get in line!” The soldiers stagger to their feet, ready for orders. “Echo, Miller, Lopez! Go cover our flank! Greene, I need eyes ahead!”

Miller and the other two soldiers rush to the rear, while Anya takes point, peaking over the edge of the crater. Soldiers line up on either side of Anya with their weapons ready. Clarke glances down at her own weapon, seeing her screen flashing words in Mandarin script.

“Safety!” She shouts. No one listens to her. “How do I turn off my safety?” Still being ignored, she keeps towards the rear, aiming her arm downwards. She toggles with her control panel, while the master sergeant picks up Finn, pushing him towards the rearguard.

“I’m waiting, Greene!” Master Sergeant Trikru shouts over a nearby explosion.

“I see traces!” she shouts back, ducking her head as sand rains down onto them. “500 meters and they’re coming in fast!”

“Dammit,” Master Sergeant Trikru grimaces, clenching her teeth. She quickly reverts to a neutral expression and nods her head. “Prepare for contact! Firing position! Wait for my signal!” She joins the soldiers at the front, seeing several red markers on her screen. “Hold!”

Clarke is still unsuccessfuly trying to turn off her safety. “Come on,” she growls, shaking her arm out of frustration.

“Holding!”

Clarke sees movement in the sand. She looks to the center of the crater and something starts crawling out. “Hey!” she shrieks, backing up. Tendrils start to rise from the center of the crater. “Hey!” she screams louder, pointing towards the surfacing Mimic.

Master Sergeant Trikru turns around, seeing the Mimic’s tendrils fully extended towards the sky before its body spins, whipping its sharp appendages at the soldiers. A couple soldiers go flying, and others scream, clawing at the sand as they try to get away. The Mimic reaches out, grabbing fleeing soldiers and pulling them towards it. The master sergeant and Anya start unloading on the Mimic. Several other soldiers who have managed to crawl out of its reach start shooting. Clarke scrambles backwards, crashing into Miller who helps to steady her before pulling his trigger. Clarke frantically tries to get her weapon to work, when she is suddenly pushed backwards into the sand. She looks up to see who pushed her, and sees Miller lifted in the air where she was just standing with a thick tendril sticking out the back of his helmet. The Mimic pulls back, and Miller’s body falls to the floor. The sand around his head starts darkening as blood flows from the hole in his head. Clarke feels bile rise in her throat and tears well up in her eyes.

The remaining soldiers have grouped together towards the back. They all fire at the Mimic as it picks off the soldiers who have been caught by themselves.

“Fall back!” Master Sergeant Trikru shouts, spitting out blood.

After the Mimic tears apart the last soldier, it spins around onto its feet, facing the unit. It opens its mouth and lets out a screech. It surges forward only to be met with a barrage of bullets. It jumps to the side and lunges again, tackling the master sergeant to the ground. She pulls her trigger, firing into its body as it tears at her in a frenzy. She gives out first.

Clarke cowers behind Anya and Echo, watching the Mimic’s movements slow as it fails to dodge the rest of the bullets. It falls to the ground, trying to crawl forward before it collapses and falls apart. The soldiers take a collective breathe before quickly reloading their weapons. Some loot extra magazines off the bodies of their dead comrades.

“You okay, Griffin?” Echo asks, turning around, seeing Clarke taking off in the opposite direction. “Shit. Anya!” Anya turns around and sees Echo chasing after Clarke. She curses under her breath, hesitating and looking back at the rest of their unit, before taking off after them.

“Griffin!” Clarke hears Echo call after her, but she keeps running away. She can’t do this.

“Get your ass back here, Griffin!” Anya’s voice makes her run harder.

She’s of no use to them. She can’t fight. She can’t even use her weapon. She’s just another dead body on this beach.

Clarke runs another few feet before Echo dives, grabbing a hold of Clarke’s foot. Clarke face plants into the sand. “Let me go!” She tries to kick off Echo’s hand, but Echo hangs on for dear life.

“Hell no! We have to get back to the unit!” Echo grits her teeth as she struggles to maintain her hold on Clarke.

Anya finally reaches them. Clarke tries to crawl away again, only for a hard pull from Echo to send her flat on the ground again. Anya crouches down, grabs the back of Clarke’s suit, and holds her down.

“We shoot deserters, Griffin,” she threatens in a low voice. Clarke continues to struggle.

“I don’t _care._ We’re all dead anyways!” Clarke sobs and Anya’s face falls. Echo sits up on her knees, looking behind them for any sign of danger.

“So what? We just give up? You think you’re the only one who is scared?” Anya’s voice trembles, but Clarke doesn’t respond. “Get over yourself, Griffin. We’re all scared. Miller was scared.”

Clarke clenches her fists and closes her eyes, but the image of Miller’s body flashes behind her eyelids. She opens her eyes, letting more tears fall as Anya continues.

“He was scared, but he still fought. He sacrificed himself for _you_ , and if you just give up, then he died for nothing. Your fight is not over, Clarke.” Clarke glances towards the blonde at the use of her first name.

“Okay,” Clarke says, wiping her tears away. Anya nods and moves to stand up. “ _Wait._ ” Anya looks down at her. “How do I turn off my safety?”

Echo huffs out a genuine laugh. Anya smiles and shakes her head before pointing at the control panel. “Navigate down three times to change your language. Then you flip the switch by your thumb.” Clarke follows Anya’s instructions, and her screen flashes red, signaling that her weapon is ready to discharge.

“Thanks.”

Anya nods her head once and stands up. “Okay,” she says, turning towards Echo and Clarke. “We need to head back and find a way to rendezvous with other units. Let’s head-”

Echo and Clarke can do nothing but watch as half of Anya’s head disappears in shattering red. Clarke flinches as she feels the warm blood spray across her face.

“Anya!” Echo cries out.

Anya’s body crumples to the floor, her intact eye staring at the two soldiers. A screech echoes through the air, and they turn to see a Mimic rushing towards them. Echo fires at it, yelling as tears roll down her face. Clarke tears her gaze away from Anya and scrambles up to her feet, rushing to Echo’s side. The Mimic rolls to the side, and lunges towards them. They jump apart, allowing the Mimic to hurl past them. Clarke spins around and pulls her trigger. The recoil causes her to stumble backwards. The Mimic zig zags forward, and Clarke struggles to lock onto her target. The shock in her arm causes her to fall backwards, firing her gun in the air. She releases the trigger to bring her arm back down. Echo fires in bursts, trying to keep the enemy away from them, but the Mimic manages to get close enough to strike her hard with its sharp tendrils. Echo spins in the air and lands next to Clarke. Her head making a sickening crack as she hits the ground, and parts of her pack litter across the sand between them, including her life insurance. Clarke continues firing, and chunks of the Mimic fall from its body. It falls to the floor, twitching and then going still. Clarke huff out a relieved laugh, dropping her head back and closing her eyes.

Her relief is short lived as she hears a buzzing noise and feels the sand shift next to her head. She freezes, barely breathing, and slowly opens her eyes. A Mimic three times the size of the ones she’s seen stalks past her. Its entire body bristles, glowing blue underneath its plated skin. Clarke glances at her control panel. It flashes a ‘RELOAD’ message, and Clarke knows she won’t be fast enough to do so. A breeze sweeps past her, and Clarke understands that she won’t live through the next moments. She turns her head to look at Echo’s body, and studies her relaxed face.

_At least she looks peaceful._

Clarke hears more buzzing noises, along with some screeching hisses. She glances in the direction of the large Mimic and sees several regular ones flock to it. Clarke struggles to keep her breathing steady as desperation overtakes her. Her eyes dart around her for any type of weapon, and she finds Allie within reaching distance between her and Echo. She quickly looks back towards the Mimics.

One of the regular ones notices her moving and shrieks. The blue Mimic snaps its head in her direction, tensing its body. Clarke reaches over, grabbing Allie and its detonator as the blue Mimic lunges at her. Clarke squeezes the detonator, feeling its teeth sink into her neck before everything burns. She shrieks, choking on the thick, black blood of the Mimic. Her body convulses, and everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! Thanksgiving break came around, I had some work to finish up, and it's Finals week. Hopefully, I'll get out of this unscathed, unlike Clarke...


	5. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This will be deleted when I post the real chapter.

I just wanted to let you all know that I have not given up on this fic. Life has been very busy as I am in my last semester of undergrad. 

In light of yesterday's episode, I want to take the opportunity to thank each and every one of you for being a part of the clexa/lexa fandom. You are all precious human beings who matter, despite what yet another storyline has told us.

Ste yuj, my lovelies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reshop, Heda. Yu gonplei ste odon.


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